


Healer

by bluebell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pain, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 16:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebell/pseuds/bluebell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can heal people by touch, but takes on whatever injury he heals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Healer

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to evitably for discussing this with me and helping me to get going again when I was stuck. Thanks also to kim47 for the super fast beta and great advice on the ending.
> 
> This fic has now been translated into Chinese [here](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=3142&extra=page%3D1).

John's first memory was of pain.

He was lying in his Mum's arms while she whispered comforting words in his ear. John could smell her perfume and feel her hand as she stroked his hair but the strange man wouldn't let go of his hand and his Dad was holding him down and he hurt and he hurt and he hurt, screaming his displeasure and trying to get free until the pain finally left and he stopped struggling, his cries fading to hiccuping breaths as he clung to his Mum's soft warm body, his face buried in her chest.

o O o

"You have a gift, John," his Dad said, holding onto his wrists to stop him running away. "Try being grateful for once." His Dad's eyes were dark and he stank of lager despite the early hour.

"I didn't ask for it and I don't want it!" John said. "I just want to go to the same school as my friends! Harry goes, why can't I?"

"I've told you before. It's not like Primary school. It wouldn't be safe for you to go to such a big school, you'll have a tutor here at home instead."

John twisted to try and get free of his Dad's grasp but those big hands tightened even further around his wrists. John struggled not to cry out or show that it hurt as the bones of his wrist ground together. He could heal other people's injuries, taking away their pain, but not his own. It didn't seem fair.

"I won't tell anyone or heal anyone," John said, trying one more time to make his Dad believe that he could be trusted. "Know one will know, I promise!"

"You should count yourself lucky you're here with your family and not living at a healing center," his Dad spat out. "You should count yourself lucky that your Mother talked me into letting you go to Primary school."

"I'm not lucky, I hate it here!" John yelled, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He finally tore his hands free and ran off to hide in the garden.

Harry finally found him sitting at the top of one of the apple trees. He'd missed tea and she had sneaked him out a chicken leg and a couple of roast potatoes wrapped in a napkin.

"You're in big trouble," Harry shouted up to him, waving the food.

"I don't care," John lied, climbing down quickly, his stomach rumbling.

"What's it like?" Harry asked quietly. She was sitting on one the low branches and swung her legs back and forth as she watched him eat.

John wiped his mouth on his sleeve and scowled at her.

"I've told you loads of times. It hurts," John said shortly.

"But then it goes away and people give us money," Harry said, looking at him from under her long fringe. "You take their pain, but it goes away again doesn't it?"

John looked out at the sunset, wishing he were anywhere but here.

"Yeah. It goes away again."

o O o

_"Stay down, Watson! You can't help him!"_

_John barely heard, he was too busy judging the distance to the wounded man lying in the dirt, bleeding out of his ruined shoulder and onto the ground. John darted out and the sounds of battle and the yells of his superior officer faded into the background, all his attention on the wounded soldier, praying he wasn't too late. Miraculously, John made it back to their position, and lowered the wounded man gently to the ground. He moved to take both his hands and braced himself for the pain that was to come._

_John took the man's hand and closed his eyes. All he could hear was the beating of their hearts; one weak, one strong._

_John was too late, the soldier was too near death. It was dangerous for a healer when a patient was near death, but John had to save him, he had to._

_He concentrated, focusing on that heart beat as it faded. Following it down, following it down . . ._

John woke up with his mouth forming a silent cry, his sheets twisted around him and his cheeks wet, a fistful of white cotton in each hand. He lay in bed for a while as his heart pounded and the old wound in his shoulder throbbed from the nightmare. John sat up and checked the clock - 3 am. He knew from experience that there was no point in trying to get back to sleep now, and instead got up and went to make himself a cup of tea.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, still dressed in his purple shirt and black trousers, his hair slightly too long and falling into his eyes. He was sitting half turned away from John, examining something and making no sign that he had even noticed John enter the room.

"Hey, that's my phone!" John exclaimed, realising what it was that lay in pieces under Sherlock's hands. "What're you doing?"

"I need the parts," Sherlock said, sparing John a cursory glance before turning his attention back to John's disassembled phone.

John frowned and quickly crossed the kitchen. He was in no mood for Sherlock's "experiments" tonight, besides which, he had work tomorrow and he needed that phone. He reached for Sherlock's hand to stop him from inserting a small screwdriver into what was left of John's phone.

Everything stopped. He could hear Sherlock's heart beating strongly, the sound loud in his ears. His own was slightly faster and John's breathing slowed as their heart beats became one. Two hearts beating in time.

Everything came back again and John cried out as his right arm and his head and his left foot all hurt. His arm was the worst, pain slicing through him and stopping his breath. He ripped his hand away from Sherlock's and took two stumbling steps backwards, tripping over his own feet and landing heavily on the floor.

John scooted backwards till his back hit the wall. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe, he was shaking and his chest was tight and blood was dripping down his wrist and he couldn't breathe.

"John. _John_ ," Sherlock said, crouching down in front of him. Sherlock looked worried and even paler than usual. It wasn't an expression John saw on his face very often.

John looked down at his arm. A long cut had opened up on his otherwise unmarked flesh, bright red blood spilling from the cut on his wrist and dripping onto the floor. John hadn't been expecting this, Sherlock had shown no sign of being injured, and coming so soon after his nightmare, the shock was as bad as the pain.

Sherlock moved to sit beside him on the floor, sitting almost close enough for their shoulders to touch. John clamped his lips shut tightly as he felt the wound on his wrist begin to heal. It was a horrible, tugging itch that moved down the length of the cut as it slowly knit together, leaving his skin tingling uncomfortably. John hated the feeling, he never had gotten used to it. Sherlock hesitated for a moment before putting his arm tentatively around John and John took a ragged gasping breath before leaning towards Sherlock's body a little, allowing himself to take what comfort he could from the contact, the warmth.

"You're a healer," Sherlock said, sounding as surprised as John had ever heard him.

John tried to answer, tried to explain. But the words wouldn't come.

"So," Sherlock said. "You keep it secret. No one knows."

John shut his eyes tightly, unsure how he felt about Sherlock deducing all his secrets the way he did with the cases. Except, maybe it would be easier this way. At least this way John wouldn't have to try and explain himself. He would be laid bare without having to find the words.

"Nobody knows about your gift-"

"Don't call it that," John interrupted, his voice deceptively steady.

There was a moment of silence between them at John's words and he could almost hear the cogs in Sherlock's head turn.

"You keep your status as a healer a secret," Sherlock continued. "In fact, you're well practiced at keeping it a secret."

"Fooled you," John said, a ghost of a smile passing across his lips.

"You did."

Normally John would brag at that, at getting one over on Sherlock Holmes. But right now he couldn't be glad about it. He just felt raw and exposed.

"You're used to keeping it a secret because you've never been registered," Sherlock said. "Your family never took you to a healing centre. Hid you away. Made money from your ability."

"My Dad did, yeah," John said, his voice thick.

"You left as soon as you could. Joined the army because you wanted to get away. You loved it. Excelled at it. Finally felt you belonged. But then you were shot-"

John twitched minutely beside Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock said. "You weren't shot. You healed someone. There are stories of healers being badly affected if they try to help someone too near death."

"I took on his wound but I couldn't heal myself of it."

"Your unit covered it up for you," Sherlock said. "They didn't tell your superiors what had really happened. As far as anyone was concerned you were shot in the shoulder. And of course you couldn't afford to go to a healing centre yourself."

"I wouldn't set foot in one of those places even if I did have the money," John said.

"The rights of healers are better than they were but the discrimination and hatred against anyone who chooses not to use their abilities is such that you continue to keep your secret," Sherlock said. He took a deep breath before continuing. "I won't tell anyone, John. I won't even mention it again if you don't want me to. I would never harm you-"

"Sherlock, it's alright-"

"No, you need to know," Sherlock interrupted. "I'm not always good with people. I put my work, my experiments, first. Before everything. Before my own- But you're my friend. I won't do anything to hurt you. I promise."

Sherlock stopped and they sat in silence for a while on the cold kitchen floor, pressed together from shoulder to hip, Sherlock's arm still around John's shoulders while John thought about what Sherlock had just said. It was almost a childish thing to say, to feel that he needed to promise such a thing. John turned to look at Sherlock and raised his hand to that pale face, currently furrowed with worry lines, his lips pressed tightly together. John's fingers trailed over Sherlock's jaw, those cheekbones, and he attempted to smooth away the worry lines with his thumb. Sherlock was looking into John's eyes now, his lips slightly parted, his eyes uncertain.

"Is it okay if I kiss you?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock closed his eyes and John leaned forwards until their lips met softly, his hand cupping the back of Sherlock's head, his fingers getting tangled in Sherlock's too-long hair. His other hand crept into Sherlock's, their fingers tangling together. John could hear Sherlock's heart beating steadily and his own gradually slowing to match. He found it calming in a way he'd never experienced before.

Soon they would have to move from the cold kitchen floor and John wasn't sure what exactly would happen next, or how Sherlock knowing his secret would change things. But right now he was content just to sit here, counting Sherlock's heartbeats as they continued to kiss.


End file.
